


How To Love And Care For Your Assassin

by louisiana_basement_dweller



Category: Hitman
Genre: AU, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, confused 47, no one is in character, so non canon it hurts, soft lucas, this is as close to slice of life that I'm ever going to get
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-30 07:27:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17219555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louisiana_basement_dweller/pseuds/louisiana_basement_dweller
Summary: The dust has settled. The mighty have fallen. Lucas must pick up the pieces. Can he and 47 build a life together? Or will the cruel hands of fate tear them apart once again?





	How To Love And Care For Your Assassin

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!! This is my first post to AO3 ever and I'm so nervous. I figured it was time to wake up, get up, and get out there! This fic was the product of a last ditch attempt to win NanoWrimo and my current obsession with Hitman. I haven't edited it and constructive criticism is welcome! Anything I can do to improve my work I will try to do. All that said and done, please enjoy!

In an instant, it was all over. As soon as it all began, too, it seemed. How fast does time move when you ignore its existence? When life becomes nothing more than a race against death, time gets a little irrelevant.

At least, that’s how Lucas Grey saw things. 

But now that his war was over, he had too much time. And he was too damn aware of how much time he had on his hands. He took comfort in clean up detail, glad that everything was over but simultaneously glad that he still had something to do to keep his mind busy. Busy as it was, however, it wasn’t busy enough to keep the flashbacks at bay. They were getting bad again, and he knew it was pointless to try to find a remedy. 

He’d tried medication. He’d tried therapy. He’d tried drinking, drugs, women, men, you name it. Nothing quelled the pain, nothing soothed the terror he felt deep in his gut. On the nights when it got too bad for him to handle, the nights where he’d wake up screaming and drenched in sweat, he found himself wishing his memory had been wiped, too. He could live without these damn flashbacks. 

And he thought he could live without 47. 

Call it obsession, call it love, whatever it was, it wasn’t letting him go. Even after it was all said and done, after the pieces fell where they did, he couldn’t let 47 go. But he’d won, hadn’t he? He’d gotten exactly what he wanted and he should be happy. There was no need to run in fear, no need to hide in the shadows. He clawed his way to the top and now the fate of everyone involved with this whole fiasco was in his hands. He was in charge. He was king. 

But he had hardly walked away unscathed.

Coming that close to 47 had done something to him. What that something was wasn’t clear at all. It left him shaking, gave him the feeling of being completely empty inside. It was a cold feeling, but he knew it wasn’t hatred. He could never hate 47. He didn’t have it in him. Funny how he was clinging to these too human emotions when he should have given them up long ago. At least, he thought this something was a human emotion. It was something that 47 didn’t have anymore, that was for certain. 

How could he not feel this way, too? How could 47 look him in the eyes and feel nothing? Was there really nothing left?

These thoughts haunted him almost as much as the memories.

In the midst of it all, they had come face to face. They had looked into each others eyes. Lucas wasn’t sure what 47 had seen in his, but in 47’s eyes, Lucas saw nothing. It was like staring into the eyes of an android. Emotionless, cold, calculating. There was nothing human about them… and it shouldn’t be bothering him this much. He knew what had happened to 47 all those years ago, and what had happened since. He knew everything. So why was this so damn shocking? Why did it hurt so badly?

Because you always kept your distance before, idiot.

Their small interaction had been the first in years. Lucas had taken to watching 47 from a distance, like some sort of wild animal. No, more like an unattainable prize. Always just out of reach, always elusive. But those rare moments when he did come close, when their shoulders brushed in a crowd, when their eyes met through the scope of a sniper rifle, were the most effective means of getting high Lucas had ever experienced. 

Imagine his euphoria when they ended up in the same room. Guns drawn. Eyes locked. Both ready to die. 

So he had taken the bullet. 

He’d faked his death many times, doing it once more wasn’t terribly hard. It’s a lot like riding a bike. Once you learn, the skill is with you forever. Probably not the best skill to have in practicality, but in his profession, it was pretty damn important. And useful, in more ways than one. As he sat up in his bed, which was much too big for just one person, he recalled the way the whole thing had gone down. 

Lucas hadn’t intended on running into 47 during his final mission to take down Providence, once and for all. The objective was to get in, slaughter everyone, make a point that he was running the show, and then get the hell out. It had been going well, almost too well, when he had turned a corner and literally ran into his childhood friend. 47 looked just as startled as he did. If Lucas hadn’t been so rattled, he would’ve found it amusing. Lucas, not caring how much of a coward it made him look like, had turned and booked it in the direction he had come from. The head office was back that way. It was a big enough room so that he could make a turn around and— 

And what? Blow 47’s head off? Kill his best friend? Kill the object of his desires? Possibly one of his reasons for living? 

He had burst into the office, rushing around the giant table and whipping around, finger on the trigger and ready to fire. It would be a warning shot, he decided. A warning shot and then he would make another run for it. If he could get to the communications room, he could act out the rest of his plan and narrowly escape 47 once again. He’d slip through his fingers, just like 47 had done to him oh so many times. 

But when 47 entered the room, and their eyes locked, he froze. For the first time in his entire life, in his entire career, he froze. They were so close… if he had been inclined to do so, Lucas could’ve easy walked a few steps forward and closed the gap between them. He could’ve held his friend again, could’ve apologized for never coming back. No. For trying to come back and failing. 

I never wanted to leave you behind, he’d say, I came back for you but I couldn’t get to you. I tried. You can hate me, if it makes you feel better. But know that I tried. 

But he didn’t say anything. He didn’t move. He couldn’t do either. He was frozen in place, staring into 47’s cold and empty eyes. There was going to be no easy way out of this, at least, not in the ways that he would’ve wanted. He wasn’t going to get around 47 if he didn’t fire his gun, and he wasn’t going to run anywhere if he couldn’t move. 

He was going to have to act out his plan right here. He’d come up with an explanation to his team later and they’d get the word out somehow, but he could see no other way out of this. Lucas turned the gun in his hand, lifting it and pressing the muzzle to his temple. Faking death is simple when you’ve done it a million times, but it still takes nerves of steel. There’s always an element of very real danger, and Lucas was aware that, if he fucked up, he could end up really blowing his brains out. 

He watched 47 lower his own gun, as if making for a truce, which made Lucas second guessed himself. He didn’t lower the gun, or move it away from his temple, but he didn’t make any immediate moves to pull the trigger, either. He felt his breath hitch in his throat when 47 set his gun down on the table and took a small step back, slowly raising his hands in what Lucas could only guess was surrender. 

“There’s no need for that,” 47 had said, his voice just as robotic and cold as his eyes. Lucas would like to think that there was some sort of concern there, but he was probably just grasping at straws. He flinched when 47 took a few steps towards him, his finger tightening on the trigger. 47 stopped where he was, keeping his hands up. “Put the gun down and come quietly. We both know that it’s in your best interest to do so.”

Lucas had smiled then. Had he laughed? His memory of what happened in that moment was a little fuzzy. Perhaps he had laughed. 47 truly had no idea what he was talking about and it was pretty damn funny. It wasn’t in either of their best interests if he continued to “live”. If only he could tell his friend that, perhaps comfort him a little. Not that he thought 47 needed it, the man probably didn’t know what the feeling of distress was. 

Distress is holding a loaded gun to your temple, hoping the blank you fire doesn’t kill you, and that the small explosive under the skin of your other temple blows outward and not inward. It’s not an exact science, after all. 

Lucas hadn’t planned on giving last words. He had planned on getting into communications and broadcasting a video of his supposed suicide to everyone he deemed important enough to see it. No last words, no big speech, nothing. Actions speak far louder than words, after all. Except for in this case, it seemed. 

Lucas took a deep breath, letting it out slowly and steadying his hand. He had decided on his last words, figuring he ought to make them the truth. He owed that much to his friend. “This is for your own good.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth and pulling the trigger. The blank went off, the explosive triggered and blew a nickel sized hole out of the other side of his head, and there was enough gore to make it believable. The explosive had rattled him, as well as the adrenaline rush, and he felt a wave of dizziness wash over him. Great. He had to fall over anyway, obviously, but it was a lot harder to pick a direction when the room was spinning. 

He didn’t count on being caught, that’s for damn sure. As he began to fall, he felt someone wrap their arms around him, breaking his fall. He went as slack as possible, playing dead with ease and hoping it was enough to trick someone that only worked in death. He felt himself being lowered to the ground gently, and then, felt a head on his chest. 

Oh, 47, you should know better than this.

Slowing down a heartbeat was elementary school level stuff, and Lucas was able to do it with ease. Slower… and slower… until it was so quiet, the beats so sparse, that it would be obvious to anyone but himself that he was dead. There was no coming back from a gunshot wound to the head, after all. A slim chance, at best. He felt the head on his chest lift, hearing 47 shuffle around momentarily before standing up. Lucas then felt the soft fabric of a suit coat being draped over his face.

What the fuck? Is this 47’s coat? Did 47 cover me up? 

Lucas wasn’t sure how to take this. He was sure it was a sign of respect, but it still didn’t make any sense. 47 didn’t remember him, at least, Lucas didn’t think he did. He never showed any indication of remembering, anyway. So, was this some sort of power related thing? They were on the same level, worked the same way, had the same mind. Formidable opponents. Lucas’ weakness was emotion, and 47’s was the lack thereof. They were a perfect match, so it sort of made sense that 47 felt respect towards him, Lucas guessed. 

Or maybe Lucas was wrong. Maybe 47 did remember him somehow. Maybe he was saying goodbye in the only way he knew how. So many questions without answers, something he was used to by now. His entire life was a question without an answer. Questions and answers aside, he lay there long after 47 exited the room, terrified to move and become real again. He didn’t want to feel the emotions that would come along with what he had just done, what 47 had done.

That had been weeks ago, now, almost a month, and Lucas was still struggling to sort out his convoluted emotions. He had taken the suit jacket with him, the garment laying beside him on top of the rumpled sheets. He knew he shouldn’t be putting an emotional attachment on a suit jacket, but it was impossible not to. 47 had given it to him as a parting gift, as a token of affection. Lucas could cling to the hope that 47 had the ability to care as long as he had the jacket. 

He reached across the mattress, taking the jacket in his hands and pulling it close. He held it in a tight embrace, feeling himself start to tremble. He was going to fall apart, at this rate. He couldn’t do it, though, considering his position in the world now. Falling apart wasn’t an option. Killing himself wasn’t an option, either. He’d entertained that thought more times in the past weeks than he’d care to admit. Especially on nights like this one. 

He buried his face into the soft, silky fabric of the jacket, trying to imagine that it was his friend that he was holding and not just a fancy piece of clothing. He wanted to feel those strong arms around him again, though this time, he’d be able to hold 47 back. He hold on so tightly that it would hurt and he wouldn’t let go. This unintentional game of cat and mouse they had played would come to an end, and he’d allow 47 to get close to him. He’d let his friend slip through his fingers too many times, it was starting to cut too deep. 

“I can’t keep doing this,” he whispered into the coat. “This needs to end… I need to make this right.”

When had he become so soft? Or maybe, he’d never been hard to begin with. 

He set the jacket aside, climbing out of bed and turning the lamp on. He took a few deep breaths, trying to sort through his racing thoughts. If he was going to set this new plan in motion, he needed to keep calm and level headed. If he let his emotions drive him, it could end very badly for everyone involved. Hell, he might inadvertently start another war. Who knows?

Finding his cell, he dialed a number he never thought he’d have to call directly. He’d observed 47’s handler for some time, making sure she didn’t pull any stupid shit or send his friend into a fray he couldn’t make it out of. Guardian angel he was not. Worried friend? Maybe. She seemed to care a great deal about him, too. Not that he was jealous or anything. All that aside, he’d acquired her number some time ago, and kept it in his phone in case he ever needed to be directly in touch. 

Such a situation never came up until now. 

After a few rings, Lucas heard 47’s handler’s soft voice on the other end. “If you’re calling this number, I assume you know who I am and what I do. If not, hang up now and lose this number as soon as possible.”

Lucas smirked, some of his nerves wearing off. He really liked her. “I know who you are. And you know who I am, too.”

There was a pause. Then, “…are you playing some sort of game?”

“I don’t play games,” Lucas assured, “and this is a very serious call. I’m not lying when I say you know who I am. We’ve had brushes with each other before. I’m reaching out to you because I need your assistance with something.”

“And what’s that then?” she inquired. Lucas didn’t miss the edge in her voice now. She was wary of him, and she had every right to be. She didn’t know who he was, and he figured that her knowing wouldn’t take the edge off. 

“I need to hire your agent. I have someone to take care of, if you catch my drift. I’ll be willing to pay whatever price you ask, so long as 47 is the one doing the job,” he offered, feeling his heart start to pound in his chest. 

“Right, you have my attention,” she said curtly. “Who is the target and where will we be meeting them?”

Lucas froze. He really needed to stop doing that. He steeled his resolve, speaking lowly but clearly, “the target is the Shadow Client, Lucas Grey. Rosewater Park. Noon tomorrow.”

There was a long pause from the other end of the line, and Lucas feared that she may have hung up on him. Or maybe she was smarter than he was giving her credit for. Finally, he heard her trembling voice come back on the line. “Understood.”

“Wonderful. Have a good evening,” he concluded, not bothering to wait for an answer and hanging up. He tossed the phone back onto the desk, running his hands through his hair and sighing shakily. What was he getting himself into? Was this really the right choice? It was impossible to turn back now but that didn’t stop him from having doubts. What was 47 going to do when he saw him? What was he going to say? Would he even believe it? He’d come back from the dead before but this was different. 

And never mind 47, what was he going to say? ‘Hey, 47! Been a while, huh? Sorry you thought I was dead but I’m alright! Wanna run away with me and leave this horrible life behind you? Come on, what do you say, buddy? You love me, right?’ Yeah, right. He would have to explain himself, that’s for sure. He would have to go into detail about how he pulled it off, and why he even did it in the first place. Explain that it wasn’t supposed to work out that way, that he wasn’t supposed to run face first into his childhood friend and get cornered like that. Try to explain that 47 wasn’t supposed to see him die. 

Well, that’s if he even got past hello without having a mental breakdown. Seeing 47 again after so long was going to be overwhelming enough without the other stuff piled on top. Looking into those cold eyes, listening to that mechanical voice… he might end up throwing himself off the nearest bridge instead. 

He glanced back at his bed, his eyes lingering a little too long on the jacket. There was no way he was going to get back to sleep tonight. He was sure that, even if he did, the dreams that were waiting for him would make sure it wasn’t a restful sleep. He wandered out into the hallway, finding the stairs and walking until he ended up in the living room. He plopped down on the couch, glancing around and sighing. Why was everything in this house way too god damn big? His house could comfortable fit twelve other people, and he was the only one living in it. One of his employees had suggested buying this house and, at the time, it really appealed to him. Now, it filled him with a deep loneliness. 

Finding the remote and covering his legs in a knitted blanket, he turned on the TV. He had to turn away when it powered on, the bright LED painful to look at after being in the dark for the past several hours. After the pain from the stab of the brightness receded, he turned back and sighed again. The TV was too fucking big, too. Maybe he should do a crazy downgrade, get a small cabin out in the middle of nowhere with a tiny box TV and only one floor. No massive windows, no expansive, open concept rooms. Just simple stuff. But, for now, he was stuck with this set up. He really couldn’t complain, and shouldn’t, but he was going to anyway. 

As he began flipping through the channels mindlessly, he let his thoughts drift off. He wondered what it would be like to have no emotions, to have no concrete memories to cling to. It might be better than this hell, but it could be worse. He remembered his childhood days spent with 47, how much fun they would have when they got time to themselves. How they decided to run away, knowing they could be killed but not caring because anywhere was better than that lab. God, he wished it had worked out. He wouldn’t be sitting in this mansion, he wouldn’t have half of the things he did, but he would have 47. He would have a normal life with no death, no conspiracy, no pain. No need to constantly look over his shoulder in fear of what was chasing close behind him. 

The more he thought about it, the happier he was that he had been able to keep some semblance of humanity. Emotions could be awful sometimes, but they made him who he was, same with his memories. Things he wished he could change, wished he could be, were irrelevant. This was who he was and what he had made for himself. And now, it was time to start over once again. This time, he would be ready for it. 

He felt himself beginning to drift off, his head nodding every now and again. He finally gave up, settling on a news station and setting the remote down. He laid down, draping the blanket over him a little more comfortably and making use of one of his couch pillows. This wasn’t as comfortable as his bed, but he’d take it for now. Nightmares lay waiting in that bed, maybe the couch would fair better for him. He listened to the news anchor drone on and on about some crime being committed a world away from where he was, letting the noise lull him into sleep.


End file.
